Stay Safe, Son
by newkathy97
Summary: A short fic written for Father's Day. Also my first! It was brought to my attention that the second part of this fic was rather rushed. I have tried to remedy that, and I hope it worked! I had some computer trouble in the past, and this was a bit of an experiment, just to see if I could post. Enjoy!


**I didn't really intend to write my first fanfiction in under two hours! This was an experimental fanfic, as I'm writing another one with multiple chapters. I know it's kind of an odd thing to have as a first, but I wanted to write something to commemorate Father's Day, but as a result this is not researched and un-beta-ed. Sorry for any mistakes, but there was no time!With the exception of Peter Newkirk, I own all the characters in this story**

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**Stay Safe  
**

**By Kathy**

February, 1916

The whole atmosphere of the night was one of tension. The men of the British infantry sat in the muddy trenches, wet and filthy. A small group of them sat and talked in order to take their minds off their discomfort, and gradually the discussion came around to their families.

"Well I've got a wife and two kids waiting for me back home." A burly corporal, Joe Sykes, announced proudly. "My eldest girl sent me a drawing she made in school." He displayed the childish image of what was obviously meant to be the Sykes family. "She turned seven last month," he said softly, and there was an unspoken plea in his voice. The men were silent for several moments, and then it was broken by the cheery voice of a young private.

"Well I don't have a wife, but I got a girl waiting for me back home." He said happily. "And she's the sweetest girl in all Leicestershire." There were a few laughs from the older men, and one of them clapped him soundly on the back. A few more reminisces were exchanged before they turned to another young private, about twenty- three years old, who had been sitting in silence throughout the whole exchange. Sergeant Nick Matthews spoke softly to him:

"Newkirk, lad, what's got you so quiet?"

The young man turned a radiant face on his comrades.

"I just been thinkin'," he said quietly in his East-London accent. "I got a letter my Gwen sent me back in December- me son was born. My little Peter. She sent me a picture. See," he said, pulling a dog-eared photograph of a chubby baby boy out of the depths of his soiled uniform. The men passed it around quietly before handing it back to the proud young father.

"He's beautiful, David." Sykes said softly, thinking of his own two children. The men continued to talk softly.

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Three hours later, they were under heavy attack. Explosions shattered the air, and flying debris and shrapnel posed more of a danger than enemy bullets. Sergeant Matthews glanced around him and spied a glassy- eyed Corporal Sykes lying in the mud of the trench- stone cold dead, with the lower half of his body completely blown off. A lump rose in Matthews' throat as he thought of the woman and two children back in England, waiting for him. But there was no time to dwell on such matters.

Behind him he heard a pained cry. He spun around to see Private Newkirk lying on the ground, clutching a leg that was heavily bleeding from a large gash that ripped through his thigh. The young man was obviously at the point of passing out. Matthews ran over, and knelt at his side.

"Listen, Newkirk!" he shouted. "You're going home, do you hear me? If I know anything about wounds-"

Private Newkirk shut his eyes and leaned back. _Hold on, lad_, Matthews silently pleaded_, _and thought of the mangled body of Sykes, lying in the mud_. You're one father that's going back to his family!_ When he watched the medics take the private away to join the other wounded, he sighed in relief.

_Stay safe, son_.

Half an hour later, Sergeant Nicholas Matthews was killed in an explosion.

* * *

_September, 1939_

David Newkirk thought of that day, and unconsciously touched the scar on his leg through his trousers. He didn't remember anything about that day; he only remembered waking up in a military hospital in England. He remembered seeing his wife, and holding his son for the first time. He remembered the huge rift that had formed between himself and Peter in later years, due to misunderstandings and mistakes on both sides. And he remembered the love and care of his wife for both of them-the force that had brought them back together. And now he looked at his son, standing before him, and thought of the news he had brought; news which brought back everything he had experienced throughout the Great War and afterwards.

He gently rubbed his distraught wife on the back and looked up at his son, standing before them. He knew Gwen, too, was remembering when he had gone to fight in the Great War, to return with a permanent limp. Those times had been harder on her than on anyone; her husband had always said she worried too much. And now that Peter was going off to war, the worry she had felt for her husband would be re-incarnated in her fear for her eldest son. He looked up at Peter.

"You said you're in the RAF?"

"That's right, Dad. Conscription is coming, and I didn't want to end up in the infantry." He looked pointedly at his father's bad leg. He sighed, and turned his gaze towards his mother, then down to the floor. "I'm sorry. And there's more. I've-" he paused a minute, took a deep breath and looked his parents straight on. "I've volunteered for aircrew- gunner's training. I report to base in a couple of days." Gwen buried her face in her hands.

The silence in the room was heavy with one question:

Why? Why did this have to happen to her a second time? Why another war, more long months of waiting in fearful anxiety, hardly daring to hope that the one she loved would reach home safely at the end?

Peter went and knelt by her chair.

"I'm sorry, Mum, but somebody 'as to teach old 'itler 'is place. I'll be 'ome soon, 'promise." He kissed his mother gently on the cheek, then stood up and went to the window of the sitting room, to gaze out into the dusk enfolded- street. His explanation had been simple enough, but beneath the words David caught the answer to the questions.

Why? Because he had to. Because it was his duty to his country, and to his family. It was the duty of Peter and his generation to protect them, just as it had been the duty of his father's generation in the war years ago. And, in spite of all the arguments he had ever had with Peter, and the many differences between them, David now looked at his son, he realized these things. And he also realized he had never felt more proud of his son. He leaned close to his distressed wife, and whispered softly:

"He'll be alright, mum. After all, I was- I got ten kids to prove it." With that, he stood up, and approached his son.

"Do us proud, Peter." He shook his son's hand warmly, then pulled him into a hug. "And stay safe. You're old mum'd never forgive me if you didn't come 'ome."

"Right-o, Dad." He pulled away, and went over to his mother to give her one last embrace and kiss. He then saluted his father, who returned the gesture, and left the room. David's thoughts followed the retreating figure of his eldest boy.

_Stay safe, son._

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**How was it?  
**

**Some explanatory points:**

**I know many people don't believe Newkirk actually came from a large family, but I know a lot of people from big families, and he always seemed like a member of a large family to me.**

**Also, to be a member of aircrew, one had to volunteer. The Newkirk from the show certainly doesn't seem like the type to do this, but I think that something might have happened to him while in service or as a POW to make him like this, considering all aircrew were volunteers, and he does mention being a flier in _Sticky Wicket Newkirk._**


End file.
